anonymousblack: ([wenders] marion swings)
we burst with fire, we burn at the seams. we fill the night sky with obfuscating matters. we see, we cannot see. we breathe, we cannot breathe. the smoke is heavy and fades the night's resolution to a smoldering palette of ash.

how long can i hold off on writing about ashes?

there's a story in it, of course there is, but maybe the story has burned through. there's a story in it, of course, but is it my story to tell? in a desperate hour, perhaps. in an hour made strange by the passage of time. in an hour anointed with holy oils and incense smoke, consecrated in a kiss on the crown center, chanted over, sang over, wept over, wailed over.

the clamor of death among the living, the noises it makes, the attentions it gathers. sirens and sirens. sirens and songs. here is another story about the dying. here is another story summoned from the land of the dead. we are witnessed, we are always witnessed. it is the indefinite purgatory of those with unresolved business to witness the dying and the dead, at least for a time. it is the nature of inconclusive terminations. why was this life stopped? why was that heart broken?

if i am a witness, if i am a witness from my own inconclusive termination, if i am here witnessing this stranger's end i can grieve them as one of my own: though i won't know their whole story, i will only know this small part of this one aspect of their conclusion, which is for the best because i will not need to negotiate my grieving around a larger context. it is only: this passage. this transition. this coming into going out of form.

who were you, lost stranger? what did you look like before this moment of your demise, scrubbed of context, of associations, of experience and desire? what did you enjoy reading? what did you like to eat? what had you accomplished in those years since birth, what did you lose out on? what broke your heart, broke your resolve, broke you and broke you again?

these witnesses, these alignments revealed only in death. these holy mysteries anointed over and consecrated through by what cannot be known. the world of the dead is not the world of the living. the world of the dead is not the world of the living. there are no guest rooms for one in the world of the other: only day trips, only nightly rumination; only technical tours with extremely limited access. intermediaries of unattended death. death conveyed in fragments. no one being has the whole story, especially not the one who dies.

this side of infinity's twist, i light a candle and enjoy its burn. i light a candle and shortly become anxious about the candle's impending death. so i witness the flame closely, doing what i can to prolong the burn. i trim the wick. i drop in wax from other candles. i snuff the candle out long before i am ready: and then i do it all over again. i lose my meditation to the tending of candle flames: this is because, long ago, far away, i lost myself on the in between. i let myself slip into a weird atmosphere, seduced bodily by the strangeness of it. i let my candles burn into five inch flames, burn long leaking wounds into each pillar's side; i found perverse satisfaction in the sick wax splatter onto the jeweler's traveling sales case that constituted my first unintentional altar. i laid on the floor. i brought my knees to my chin. i let the candles bleed or i left them anemic, weak, barely a moment left in each flicker, a horrible loop of the end that never quite comes:

and i became entranced. i became ecstatic with the carelessness of it. at last for once certain in my greedy burn. a goddess of willfully unknown variables: and then, the next morning, it became apparent what had happened to someone i cared about that same night while i was off by myself burning candles: it nearly killed me. i wouldn't light candles for a month after. a month became a year, a year became a decade and i still will not give myself over to candle flame, i still only rarely use pillars. at the sound of bleeding wax i go into a panic, i perform surgery, i salvage the wick, i tend, i tend: all this is anymore is tending.

last january, i called the fire. last january, i screamed the fire into form. "burn it," i screamed into a suddenly silent room. did i know what i was doing? do i ever know what i am doing?

oh, holy disconnect. heart performing that ritual the head is not ready to understand. my hardest lesson: sometimes i act in truest harmony with spirit before i even understand what i am doing.

we are
as we've been
as we always will be

(except not.)

anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] kiss)
the broken spell, the spell broken, the broken matter of what was spelled out and smashed to bits then abandoned: to the elements, to the elemental forces, to the shape of things to come that came and did what they did and now they are gone and cold blows the wind, the wind blows cold, cold and sharp around every fractured corner, in through the window cracks, blowing again blowing, whistling through, whispering through: but then again you know but then again you’ve heard, at least you had the opportunity to hear, did you hear?

have you heard?

have you given this information a chance? listen:

we are blown by the wind or we are blown through. we are blown out, wick deprived of purpose, left stiff and blackened in a molten pool of wax. we are, as we are, as we’ve been, as we’ll be, until we are not and then who even knows.

i bring the pen’s tip to the page.

i hover the silence.

i wait and see. i wait and wait.

i wait and listen - listen - listen

but then again. and then again. again, again, again, she screams. o god, she screams. burn it, she screams. take who you were three minutes ago and

the spell is broken. the broken fragments of spells: elemental invocations, bits of string, needle stems of herbs sealed in splattered candle wax: listen, can you listen? do you hear what’s calling, what’s been calling, now that there's a crack, now that crack in everything has let the light in? but you can’t listen to light, can you? not with our factory standard sensory capacities. not with our common sense and this-is-really-for-the-best, you’ll understand one day, you’ll understand someday, what i’m saying is: who’s reading? who’s reading and why? again:

i listen for the light. i listen for certainty. i listen for some subtle change, a telling displacement of the waterline, an unanticipated component in the local bouquet, an unacknowledged frequency moving the needle in strange new ways. one year ago yesterday bowie died. one year ago today i'm a black star, i'm a black star i sat next to ben in the mezzanine, doubled over my notebook, suddenly desperate to describe a miscarriage i’ve never had. bowie's death knocked it out of me. bowie's cancer knocked it out of me. it’s just a story, but i’m twitching with it. it’s only a story, but it’s making the corners of my vision spark. it's a story, but something about it has broken skin. my pregnancy stories do not end well. only one in memory carried to term and technically. technically?

i burned the physical remains of my incomplete first novel in a friend's fire pit. she left me alone for this. she is also a witch, but, moreover, she is also a writer. a fellow witch and a writing fellow, she knows the basic shape of where i am in this moment if not the exact contours. she has also lamented lost creative projects. she did not need to hear my lamentations to know they occurred.

and so the book burns, at last. sixteen years. twenty, really. twenty-one years. the book burns: the printouts, the composition notebook, fifty odd scraps of ingram status reports freehand inked with wistful fragments, beautiful stray lines that got stuck at the shelter for much too long, trying again trying to get me to: write the damn book. but no. and no. and again, no. every time no. fifty odd failed attempts. thousands upon thousands of failed attempts. and then the workshop handouts, my revision notes, my session notes, feedback feeding back on itself until i collapsed at the keyboard with the shakes, all i could ever hear when i reached for the next word. the next word wasn't there. the book blew town. the book never looked back. the book died.

all the same, i carried its corpse with me everywhere: for a year, for two years, i carry this book with me still and it needed to stop: so i burned it.

and i say this like it is accomplished fact, but it is not. right now: it is a story. that's all a ritual really is, in the end: a story told, beginning, middle,to end. a story told with the body instead of words. so here is my ritual, and here is my story: the story of my first miscarriage. the story about a miscarriage that i failed to carry to term. it's a droste effect narrative. the book that died like that on the workshop table: it will happen a few days into the waning moon during the upcoming venus retrograde. i will burn my incomplete first novel. i will put the ashes in a silver flask and drive them to delaware, or i will hold on to them to release off pelee island at the end of may. release them back into the wilderness. release them back into the wilderness they never really left. will that be the end of it? will that finally be the end of it?

probably not, but who could say.

my most significant offering, to be sure. listen: where is my book? and listen: where did my book go? we haven't got all night. we haven't got forever. we do, but we don't. forever doesn't present itself in a way most of us can easily grasp. it's a tease, a shameless flirt, trust forever and find yourself alone at the coffeehouse all night every fucking time. forever doesn't tender in temporary. forever doesn't even follow whatever it is us temporary residents think we are talking about. but that's because forever has that kind of time. forever has all the time in the world.

and the wind whistles, the wind whispers, the wind blows. forgetting and breaking, breaking the shore, breaking the spell, the spell broken: gentle child of words, you didn't deserve this. gentle child of words, i have failed you.

and i'm sorry

i'm so sorry

i'm so fucking sorry.

anonymousblack: (logarithmic spiral)

nik douglas and penny slinger

white lady, white lady, white lady. woman of the white waters. woman of pearls. mother of pearl. she who obfuscates the functioning surface with the very function of that surface: gossamer and pearlescent, the way color can be a factor of white: the way pearls come forth from almost nothing, from irritants and parasites, flushed over the surface flushed over the surface again.

white lady, woman of waters, mother of pearl. you are autonomous and you are desolate. you are tuned in to eternity at the expense of the here and now. wrapped in a sheen of a scarf and nothing else you wander the caves, caves in the mountains, caves beneath the sea, caves of limestone and dripping, caves of volcanic glass and wavering light. the earth beneath your feet is always gestating some thing, think of it as the earth negotiating an irritant, think of it as the great mother building up her proud pearl.

in the waters we are equals, in the waters we are sisters, in the waters where we came from we face off, we mirror, we bring a color forth on that strange surface: we make a pearl between us, in our shared gaze. in our shared gaze, in that place where our gaze meets. in our shared gaze, in that place where, all at once, we both know everything demonstrated back to us in the other's gaze.

sister of waters. mother of pearl. the straight blue weaving, the spiraling in. how a surface changes in the depths: here. here. the pearls gathered together, the pearls clacking against one another in examination. imperfect pearl, not quite a sphere, a hint of topography, of distinct locations. the pearl will not roll straight. the pearl will roll off into a digression. a digression of pearl: that milky white silver, bright as a full winter moon. and the chill of it, the neglected parts of it, the layer upon layer upon layer of it, the we are always this one thing and not quite another, the stumble and upend, the moment the moment the moment. the holy moment. the holy fucking moment.

did you know? did you hear? the white lady, that woman of waters, holy mother of holy pearl. fucking mother of fucking pearl. she is childless, for her womb is a labyrinth, a spiral spiraling in on itself, chamber again chamber again slightly smaller and smaller again chamber. chamber where matters are held, where matters occur, where things come together to be made into something greater than they once were. woman of waters, where are you going? and woman of waters, what does it mean? you are a woman without children, you are a childless woman, like me, in resonance with my own distinctions, and yet:

pearl calls you mother, pearl is made of that same silver milk that drapes your nudity into something more sensual than nudity, that draws the eye and trails your path through the great roaring caves of water echoing the sound of water: of water wet with the shapes of water: of water, water, again water. the ways water knows us, the way water makes us, how we are the shape of water, perhaps to say: the shape water takes. and yet there is something i have forgotten, and yet there's a note i've forgotten to make my words tumble out of me after years in her womb: my words that were irritants have become pearl. so listen then, to the sound of them, the rise and roar, the coming in, the going out, and out, and out yet further: the white lady watches as i stir this cup of pearls, mixing my words, making a sound, making a path through this mystery of mysteries, this mystery of me, this that will remain a mystery, this wrong that must never be put right.

do you hear it? again, i said, do you hear it? did you hear? are you listening? are you listening, still? what are you listening for?

anonymousblack: (harrison)
out in the miles from it, out in the long-way-home.

the radio station gone abstract in the distance between. the night sky ancient in its visibility. utility poles lining the highway, one's only companion, one's only reminder of modern invention.

it's night and the road could be straighter.

it's night and it's cold and we've got nowhere to be.

it's night and we could be driving faster, i mean if there were any purpose to it, i mean if the place we were going were any better than the place we left behind. it's night and the radio has become a texture. an atmospheric augmentation. an augmentation of the atmosphere: sonic pallet in gray, nothing ventured, nothing gained; nothing offered, little observed. what had been a news report about death on the high seas now crashes in on an indeterminate shore. what had been a song about falling into something the songwriter originally understood to be love turned into avalanching falls of waste water from the nuclear power plant. what had been a traffic report. what had been a preview of all tomorrow's best shows. the story, the signal. the broadcasting tower just barely in sight. i remember. i remember.

the sky is old and getting older. the night is dark and clear. in the old sky, things are remembered. count the stories: the stories about personalities, heroes and villains. the stories about relationships, mothers and daughters, the discoveries of young lovers, the assumptions of old lovers, the hanging ellipsis of lovers that never were. a boy and his cat, a girl and her dog, the mistake and necessity of a hunter catching the eye of that animal he has most recently exiled from the living world, vital essence leaking out the spear's wound. we are all ever always at the whim of another's survival. we are all ever always living on borrowed resources. driving long distances in unfamiliar territory. driving at night under a clear and ancient sky. driving with the radio on, but what's the difference? driving with the radio on, but then again, who could say?

in this story, there is no protagonist. it's a story devoid of earthly structure.

in this story, you are a protagonist, but you might not realize it in time.

you've decided from this moment forward that all your stories will be about the elements of a story that are overshadowed by the devices of narrative: the quality of the light, the flow of one space into the next, the journey at night, alone on an empty highway, a utility pole another utility pole, the radio an experiment in abstraction occasionally stabbed through by incomplete thoughts.

jesus is watching, the radio stabs through each hand, all at once out of an opaque field of static. then: what will she see? maybe somewhere, maybe someone, maybe something will come to light. will she see?

the story, the signal. the broadcasting tower just barely in sight. headlights set every stage they skim over, ever en route to anywhere but. sometimes one cycles the windshield wipers just to give themselves something to do. the path is clear and then it isn't and then the path is clear again: squirt squirt, squeak squeak, all the while driving along, all the while just passing through. it could be about the destination, but tonight it's not even about the journey. it could be about the shape of things, the shape of time, but then again, what do you even know?

in the making of a story there are offerings to be made. people want to know: what is the purpose of this? and people want to know: what's the point? people want to know. isn't that always the way of it? so what's the motivation here? what's this character's end game? why did you construct this image, to what other images does it relate, is the character's reaction consistent with what we already don't really believe?

i used to believe i was driving to someone, when i'd drive alone long distances at night. i used to imagine this as embodying my longing. sometimes i saw it as an offering to my longing, giving it some purpose, giving it somewhere to go. instead as ever it went nowhere. instead as ever it was always a story without real purpose, no protagonist, no plot, the only stage i'd ever set a pair of headlights passing over a landscape i never really saw, a landscape i will not ever see again.

iron rose

Nov. 10th, 2016 03:20 pm
anonymousblack: ([rollins] iron rose)
in the movie she becomes somebody else like we all become somebody else, in the end, in the telling, in every manner of mirroring narrative, because in the end she isn't remotely who anyone assumed her to be. it's a fatal mistake. it's a death or death matter. to the death, one way and the other. someone will die and someone will die. death rolls out before us, to the far horizon in every direction. death takes a sharp turn to the right. and that's the way of it, bones clattering bones, bones on the ground and bones in the dirt, bones stacked up on bones, a bone-dusted repository for bones. in the end she becomes somebody else. bones tumbling over bones. bones dancing the circuit between function and exposure: bones dancing clear the boundary between the dead and the soon to be dead, the soon enough to be dead, i need air, there's not air, are you listening to me? are you listening for me? can you hear my rattling bones?

she screams, she sounds the boundary. she screams, she gives it form. she screams into the night, over the bones over, the graveyard. graves again graves, graves jammed up against graves, and again over themselves, four graves deep in places, the wrought iron markers eventually collapsing over themselves, breaking to bits, to bones and bits, the wrought iron markers bones for the scatter rusting over themselves again under, four graves deep. her lover's fraternal torment becomes an initiation he will not endure, an initiation he is not meant to endure: in the movie he becomes somebody else. you know what it's like. who you wake up with is not who you fell asleep with, that's a given, but what happens to your dreams in a night without sleep?

in the dream we collapse at each other's contradictions. bits and bones. bones and bits. a bone to pick, we pick at each other's masks. no matter can be taken lightly since the power went out. powerless, we wear each other's masks. we forget the masks are on until our first kiss clinks ceramic. in the dream i can't help myself. it's like i'm possessed. then again, of course. i pick up the shawl. i dance it in place. i dance out the quarters. i call the quarters. i call the elements: death and death and death and death. death above. death below. the circle is cast. we are between the worlds:

we are between the worlds. since tuesday night i have sleep with a dagger at my side. since tuesday night i have slept with a devil mask on the wall. i sleep in a pile of bones, as a pile of bones, bones piling up over themselves, rattle rattle, rattle again rattle, howl it out, scream it loose: and listen, and listen, and again listen. listen to me. i said fucking listen. if only he'd listened they'd have lived through the night. if only they'd listened maybe i'd have lived to forty-six. if only he hadn't let her remember the mask on the wall, the knife by her bed. if only, if only. the wind blows with only. and a scream that starts outside the body, coming in slowly from a long way back, coming in slowly from the intent and the mean, coming in slowly, nuzzling up like a cat, pressing contact that could be affection, that reads as affection, but that, in the end, is simply another territory marked. and like that. and like that. mark it out. call it done. and the scream comes in slowly, but it comes in nonetheless, no worse for wear, no easy thing. it sounds the boundary. the place where their connection breaks. the place where all connections break. the place of breaking, bone from bone, heart from mind, body from body, pull out, pull out, pull out or the cord the binds us could manifest in another's bloody scream of that broken trust. but then again:

no one will ever know. and again: no one will ever know. once down the crypt, once in the voting booth, it makes no difference: no one will ever know what actually occurred. she closes the doors and the doors stay shut. she closes the door and her dance is done. she closes the door and no one will ever know: the perfect murder. in its way, every murder is perfect, because perfection can only exist in death. i mean nothing can be added. i mean nothing can be taken away. i mean that's what we have, what it was in the end. that's what we take to the scales, and the only person who knows the whole truth of the matter is dead. i mean in death we are essentially what we've always been as well as what we were always meant to be. i mean it's where we are always going and where we were always going to go. it makes us someone else, always someone else again. again in the end, that's who were were always going to be: the end.

anonymousblack: ([magritte] mentor)
there's a kind of stillness. there's a place where the stillness collects.

there's a place of gathering and a place of retreat. collected at the corners, in the places where thought could go:

there's a place where this is nothing. a passing glance, a possibility unrealized and dropped back into the bottomless receptacle of unrealized possibilities. hands touching, fingers linking, but nothing really remembered or held. you want to be remembered. you want to mean something to the people who mean something to you. why don't i mean something to someone who meant something to me? of course i mean someone specific, of course this is a path traversed so many times it's damn near eroding stone, but there are moments when this really does not feel like the way things are supposed to be: but what do i do with that? i have mismatched metaphysical socks. my psychic t-shirt is on inside out. i'm piled up with clutter, nothing goes back to its proper place when i'm done using it, though there's always a chance it didn't have that place to start out with. i am not a tidy person. i'm tired. i'm sad. i don't know that this is going anywhere, and to be perfectly honest. to be perfectly honest. to be perfectly honest, but then i don't know that i've been even passably honest for the last year (at least).

i'm climbing all over myself. i'm crawling out of my skin. creepy crawlies, broad sweeps of shivers, staring back at myself again and again and again. is that another fine line? am i sprouting a zit? can i really afford to be shedding this much hair? trapped between puberty and geriatric solutions, as i ever am. who am i looking at when i look at myself? it isn't me. at least, it isn't the same person that other people see when they look at me from across assorted distances, be it inches, be it miles, be it in person or conveyed in photographs, mixed media, or text. where am i for myself?

i'm lost at sea.

i'm missing in action.

i've begun to presume a thing or two.

i'm gathering up my own numbers: there's a kind of sincerity in that, at least, even if it isn't simply put cut and dried on the surface in the cold with the shakes rattling hard hear me now hear me then, remember what i said, remember who i am, do you understand who i could be? i'm so conflicted about my expectations, my reasons for having them along with whatever it is they might be. what are my expectations?

doctor’s orders piled up on the nightstand: blood work a sonogram a mammogram and

so many secrets in the blood.

there's this strange ecology to my desire. maybe it's not strange as much as it is anachronistic. who thinks like this when they're forty? who thinks like this when they're thirty? honestly now: who thinks like this? i do. i don't know and i don't understand it and then and again i've tied myself up in knots and i'm piled up i'm cluttered up i really don't know i really couldn't say just keep it rolling keep it diving spell it out break it down break it up you say remember to learn the proper pronunciation i'm trying to get your attention i've been trying to compel you to say something but maybe it's hopeless maybe this isn't going anywhere, maybe that decisions been made just as it’s always been and i’m just not worth it in the bitter bitter end. i don't know. i couldn't say. why would i know? what could i say?

the wind raises itself up, the wind whistles, the wind roars, the wind sings. i wanted to understand it. i really wanted to understand it. i wanted to bring it into my life and explore what it could have meant. instead, nothing. instead negation. instead all this nothing piled up to nowhere piled up on my clutter piled up in my corners piling up to crisis points in every direction and then again maybe and maybe and maybe again

anonymousblack: (into the woods)
to make an offering: to make an offering of one's self, one's intent. to offer one's own body as a vessel for spirit: purified and consecrated, returned to the singularity of devotion and intent. to purify through offering. to understand what an offering is. do i understand what an offering is? i struggle with it: what to offer, how to offer it. i struggle with allocating resources, with finding space on the altar, with what to offer and how to dispose of it when the offering is done. when is the offering done? sometimes i struggle simply with timing, the how and when, the who and why. i'm getting better, i guess, but it's still a fight and a chore when i'd like it to be a pleasure i willingly embrace. i'm getting better, i guess, but there's still a lot of work to do.

that's part of the offering, i guess.


1. still the rushes, still the body, hold the body and wait. hold the body. there is something here, something comprised of fragments and whispers, half spoke, half neglected, half clutched to the heart for much too long.

2. and then in the distance: for it is always in the distance.

3. and then in the distance: for it is always a long way off.

4. and then in the distance: there are answers, if not questions. there's forgetting if not something to remember. in the distance, there could be multitudes, there could be any number of things: so count them, count on it, count and count and count and count. keep counting. count still. make an offering of the count

5. holy mother, i spill myself before you in offering. i spill myself at your feet. i pray what you receive will not be taken lightly. i pray there is some other answer gathering itself up on the inbetween.

6. hush, it is important to tread lightly. to not speak a name until it is time for it to be spoken. to not be a stranger among even stranger. to count and be counted, to dream of countless things; to let the wind blow through, to let the wind blow out, to blow with the wind, with that kind of release, with such intense fervor

7. and yet we do not know what there is to know.

8. and yet we could not say what we needed to say.

9. and yet and yet and yet and yet: qualified to nonsense, we rattle down the hill in a rainwater barrel.

10. oh to be remembered, to be remembered for who i am.

11. oh to be desired, to be desired as who i am.

12. oh to have you lean over me half-dreaming, to press against, to press into me, to have you taste and bite and remember

13. remember me, my love, remember me with your desire.

14. but that's not the half of it: the half of it remains: rattling down a hillside in a rainwater barrel.

15. what will you do, when you hear? what will you do next?

16. i cannot know what will happen but i can trace the threads as they weave in and out of space and time, remembering to forget, forgetting to remember.

17. for nothing is truly forgotten, just as nothing is sincerely remembered.

18. and with that and like that and my dry scratchy eyes and my heavy tipping head and my aching bones and my aching head and the crick in my neck and the stitch in my side

19. for to answer without a question is a form of attack.

20. and to question, repeatedly, where there is not an answer is a manner of assault.

21. and you could have kissed me, but you did not kiss me, so what does that mean?

22. we are full, we are full of wind and circumstance. we are hot and hard and blown right through.

23. we are remembered. we are forgotten. we are an unasked question. we are an answer surrendered in offering of, in offering to, oh holy, oh holy holy, oh holy most holy to:

24. shh, the answer is coming.

25. hush, the offering is made.

anonymousblack: (labyrinth contrast)
does it matter? the rich and warm of it, the nightly swarm of it, the on and on and on and on again off of it, the are you listening, do you hear me, would you hear me, does anyone hear me at all?

i don't know what it meant or what it could mean. i don't know, and the trip of stumble of that, the hopeless rumble of it, the what would i say if i could say something, the what would it mean if it meant something:

open and shut, or never resolved, no answer to be found, no trail left to follow, a tangential tangle of what wasn't said and what wasn't documented. left undocumented. a ravaging pathway through dense underbrush, and lies, or what could be lies, what might be lies, lie down now and close your eyes, lie down now and hold your tongue:

what am i saying? what the fuck am i even trying to say?

the point of this is that there isn't a point. no single point. no single point of entry, no trodden path through the chaos, no satisfying resolution or manageable solution, no simple way to work out or through. just:

all of a sudden you're here and all at once you are gone. and you arrive in a mess, and you wander around through a mess making a terrible mess as you go and, once gone, leave yet another mess behind. so it is what we are: a mess. we are messy creatures. we are infernal leviathans of god might not even know what. we are enigmas wrapped in riddles stashed somewhere in plain sight that you'll never think to look. and then and then and then.

does it matter? did it matter? will it ever matter?

i don't know, and that lack of knowledge crumples up under my fingertips, rattling, ripping, no matter too serious, no matter it's silly, but then again, you know? but then again. we matter to each other, i think, except when we don't. at least we have that. maybe that's enough, i think, except when it isn't. i haven't written for days. i couldn't tell you why. just that: i don't really have anyone to report back to, no deadlines, lines for the dead, keep it steady keep it sure and keep doing it even when there isn't a purpose even when there's not much of a point, nobody reading, nobody going to read: choke me dead with my own hard line, why don't you?

lose the line again again: to indifference, to social protocol, the letter of the law, the nonnegotiable absolutes of life and death, we're sorry but it's not a good fit, we're sorry but good luck with it, i wanted to love it, i mean, i really wanted to, but i did not. or maybe or maybe or maybe, right? he didn't say one damn thing to me, not at the end, not near it. i keep waiting, i keep hoping, maybe something, some indication, some post-dated email set to drop one day when i'm at my wits end, such a save, such a save! some half formed semblance of a real goodbye

but then again, i can't expect that. but then again,

what have i ever done to deserve that?

"read between the lines," he told me and said to repeat it back.

"write between the lines," i said, and didn't meet anyone in the eye for a week:

because there are too many secrets, too many matters pressed flat and drawn out over themselves and under again. an illustrating example. an unwanted explanation. yet another privileged stranger presuming to tell me my suffering is meaningless in light of their own. perhaps it is. perhaps i am overreacting. i've certainly overreacted before. maybe i am making it all up. i am quite imaginative, you know. aren't we all? except when we aren't, you see, and those are the scenarios where people are shot dead, are dropped between the cracks, are crushed between the cracks, abandoned to the mercy of a culture increasingly demonstrated as psychopathic in its negligence, in its self-serving 'me too,' billions of people ready to kill for even a little bit of what they've been brainwashed into thinking they want; billions of people ready to disown life long connections over facebook memes and hashtags, the hatred, the cruelty, the eternal middle school locker room that has become human relations: for what?

i started out thinking "so we can be heard," so our broadcast signal has someplace to land: but now think it's more like, "so we're never obligated to listen, so we don't feel any responsibility toward what we hear." not only to random internet strangers who, however "astutely," write openly about their heartbreaking experiences with systemic oppression, but our own loved ones, our partners and dearest friends, our children, children we've prayed for and paid for and pay for still: because it's all about getting the most out of my experience, right? if i can have it all, you better believe i better get it. i get to have a childhood a bff a prom date a college dorm room a steady a bff an able body a beautiful face a car designer clothes a soulmate a soul a dog a house a spouse a kid another kid a lawnmower a summer vacation spot a hot tub a home stereo system a gmo free organic diet access to alternative healthcare access to anything resembling healthcare at all a day at the spa handcrafted fair traded ethically appropriated stuff permissive spirituality spiritual boon without suffering the assumption of my ultimate correctness by others power and substance a meditation regime fancy ass yoga pants freedom from negativity the authority to label anyone who pisses me off a narcissist people who agree with me people who call me strong attention and accolades acknowledgement and adoration talent and renown an important voice a voice that gets heard an opinion that matters to somebody somewhere publication designer degrees in higher education a respected internet presence enough numbness to get through today's feed enough numbness to scroll past a love one's pain to explain it away to tell my loved ones that what i am going through is so much worse and feel validated in that everything! everything everything everything we want, taken without so much as a half-hearted examination of what we actually need, and it doesn't matter what we're taking away from the planet, from society, from other people, who, as much as i might claim to love them? are not me.


that's the thing.


anonymousblack: (fire)
brought to ruin: brought into memory: brought into the nightmare continuum of daily striving, daily failing, daily never quite enough: brought into being. pain's crowning glory. the crown of thorns that encircles every immaculate heart: by way of tradition: by means of necessity: and on like that: and on and on and on: held in the arms of love: grasped by the claws of pain: how it is: how it was:

:how it ever will be:

pain is the germinating necessity of love. love as an elemental force. love as a transforming reality. love as a difficult and occasionally (?) fatal initiation: love as a difficult and ultimately fatal initiation: those of us who could not come back from love: those of us who could not even survive our own love: you know the way of it, or you did, or you will and in this moment with this ring for so long as you both but that's not even the half of it, the kind of love that only lasts as long as you both shall live: kept in that box, and it does not have to be, but quite often it is: that's love as a human mechanism. love as a red ball bouncing in time over ideological assessments of the form and function love serves, not the earth shattering chaos love in itself actually is: not love itself: not love itself: so many of us never even have contact with what love, itself, actually is. not transformational love. not love that transforms. because transformational love, it does not move mountains.

it obliterates them.

such love does not waste its time sitting, head bowed, hands folded neatly, patient for evening vespers: such love twists the heads off the wicked and crushes their skulls in her mad dance. such love scorches the dead and corrupted into fertile ash. love is brutal, love is angry. love is fierce, love is belligerent. love never shuts up. love is beautiful, but not in the way you want it to be. so often we first see that which triggers out deepest love as ugly, at first: at least undesirable: at least disquieting. you have to do the work to see the beauty. you have to make yourself vulnerable to that head twisting, skull crushing, wildfire love and there are no guarantees. you'll see it, but only in flickers. you'll feel it, but only for one match's strike. at the heart. on the tongue. through the sacral center. sparking at the finger tips. you must build up your tolerance. you must keep taking risks. love can protect those who serve love, in a way, for a time, but then, but then. love serves her own understanding of justice. if one only wants the meek, user-friendly, maternal and nurturing good girlfriend of love, an easy marriage, a long and prosperous life, love has no use for you. never germinated, you'll rot away still inside your husk. love doesn't give a fuck that you believe it isn't time. ready or not, that's what love is:

ready or fucking not.

love is aggressive. love doesn't care how tired you are. how scared you are. how traumatized you are. how strong. how righteous. how virtuous. how talented. how stoned. how impatient. how smart. how healthy. how refined your media preferences. love is here. shut the fuck up and be grateful: that's literally all you can do. because: you do not cross love. do not piss love off. you are, ever always, love's miserable bitch until you are dead. or you are not. you try not to be. you rebel, you qualify, you discipline, you hold yourself back: you abandon love and end up, ever always, love's miserable bitch until you are dead. your choice.

how, love, how? how? how?

like that we are textbook examples, unwitting adherents to an exhausting mythology that loops back again to the start before you've come out the other side. like a public school american history class, you haven't even figured out who won the civil war when it's back to george washington not telling lies about the cherry tree from which he chopped his wooden teeth. if i got some of that wrong i apologize: it's from that class of stories you've heard so many times you stop hearing it, it ceases to exist, it's just this weird melange of psychological trinkets that populate a modern american childhood. frosty the red-nosed ugly duckling bringing offerings of frankincense and his last bread crust to the most sincere pumpkin patch. we love our most important stories into consumerism and humor tropes. because we all know these stories, or, at least, we think we do. we all know these stories, so we never really hear them: but sometimes, in spite of everything, something breaks through. we connect. we find something that speaks to us, to our experience, to the person we are or the person we were or the person we want to become. i could pour myself bare on the altar of love without a second thought. that's how a lot of us do it, after all: to be honest, a lack of larger considerations might be why any one of us takes a hit of that lethal stuff in the first place: we don't know any better. we set ourselves up for it: we thought we knew what we were getting ourselves into: we ended up with something else entirely: someone else entirely: entirely: entirely


anonymousblack: ([mom] boys and girls)
look into the eyes, look deep into the eyes, look into the center of it. the origin of it. into the deep and the dark of it, the place where there is no thing to see, no thing but the ultimate function, the reason this matter exists. mother darkness, mother darkness. from whom all things come into being and to which all things will return: in a state of absence, in an absence of being, as and could and perhaps will be:

mother of roses, mother of candle flame, enveloping mother of red velvet folds. mother of the center, of the point of all tensions, at the point of transition, transformation, of transmogrification: feeling become flower, become a kind of opening blossom, become a place where the light changes, transforms into color, takes on a texture. at one level, all creativity is, the basic function creativity serves, is taking some form of action to bring light in contact with some matter that has not had that sort of contact with light before. so light, be with us. so darkness, be with us. so light make your otherworldly mark against the darkness, offer us some depth, make the light work its way back toward: something.

the light loves the darkness but all they ever do is circle one another for they manifest as antagonists, as one thing intended to obliterate the other. and yet in that knowledge they are bound, and yet in that very knowledge they are married: one cannot exist without the other, the very nature of their vehicle needs its opposite to come into form. you feel it. others around you feel it. still others feel it but are in denial, still. this birthing process has been strenuous, dangerous, in play for early decades now but now about to come to crisis. will the scarlet woman birth this child from its secure darkness into the naked light? will the scarlet woman survive the birthing process? perhaps we were intended to die in childbirth. perhaps i would not have survived my firstborn. perhaps it all goes back to that oldest of old human conflicts: the desire to bring new energy into the world versus the desire to cleave to that which we love to the extent of making it sacred.

listen, daughter, every piece fits into every other piece of this. if a piece does not fit, this means you are looking for another piece, not trying to puzzle together that which cannot come together as it is. so, daughter: and so, daughter: and so, and so and so: beautiful light and beautiful darkness. holy darkness and holy light. the warm slippery cling of light to all the aching places. the gathering womb of darkness surrounding that which has been broken and needs time and love to come together again. the dark can wound and the light can wound. the dark can kill and the light can kill. good and evil are a concept entirely removed from darkness and light. an object's surrounding factors of visibility have nothing to do with the virtuousness of that object:

listen. listen. the wind prods at the sheltering canvas, picking at the desert traveler's sheltering darkness. the wind blows in light and sand. the wind blows the curtain free of its hold, dropping the bright room into wavering darkness. what is coming could be on the scale of the difference between light and darkness: imagine a third state, a third relationship. that is not light, that is not dark, that is entirely distinct from light and darkness yet impacts the environment to a similar extent? notice today the interplay between extremes: how one crosses into another, how one becomes its opposite, but then again not really, but then, again, of course.
anonymousblack: (labyrinth contrast)
call: i am opening, opening, opening, opening
response: i am opening to myself
call: i am opening, opening, opening, opening
response: i am opening to myself as i am

every wrinkle, every crack. every scab rearing up into an older scab. every new bruise, every thirty-two year gone scar. that scar snaking up the back of my right hand: from my cat. the seven inch scar inside my right calf: from a cousin’s swing set. that ripple down the tender side of my right elbow: from my own ragged fingernail on a bad night. only love breaks the skin. the cancer scar across my throat: it looks great, she tells me, you look good, he tells me, but, then, again what do they even know?

this too i will forgive
this too i will love
who i was
as i am
as i will be

every song in my head, even the terrible ones. especially the terrible ones. every thing i love about myself, every thing i do not love about myself, every thing about me that i wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. everything and then. everything, then?

here is the path to the heart of it, the core of it, the all the way way deep down. a circuit twisted snug into another circuit, a circuit patched into the holy fucking mystery of what is not even there. that's the thing about a labyrinth. you circle around the center of the thing for round after round, you circle up, you circle in, you draw yourself in tight and hold, hold, what is the answer? what is my answer? what am i praying for? why did i do this? why did i come here? what did i put so much work into, walking around and around and around? did i get my answer? did i get an answer? or did i forget the question? maybe there wasn't a question in the first place. we all want answers. of course we do. everyone wants an answer, unless it's the answer we don't want. are we willing to take the risk, make the offering of asking a question? any question? are we willing to stare down the grinding abyss of one fucking question? what will i ask?

[ redacted ]

we are
not ready
not ready
not in the least

(back into the under again, back into the inbetween)

then there's the category of that which i can only forgive. this too i will forgive. the jealous micromanaging. this too i will forgive. the terrified placeholders. this too i will forgive. those times i bled out giving answers for questions i hadn't even been allowed to formulate. this too i will love. gave myself up. gave myself away. sold myself empty. that's the thing about being asked a lot of questions. it’s a form of torture. it’s giving yourself up to someone else’s insatiable hungers. you don't know what you're answering to. you don't know the questioner's larger agenda, the purpose of the interrogation. a lot of the time rushing around to secure the security of every response serves as a distraction from questioning the motivation of being questioned like this, scrutinized, tricked into giving up what matters to you most: you're not going to realize the ways in which you are being manipulated. as an abuse survivor, i know. i know every question can be a limb snapping snare that might not trigger, sometimes, for decades. when you least expect it. once you’ve finally started to relax. as someone conditioned to take abuse, i couldn't always, i can't always see it coming, but in hindsight, i know exactly. exactly. i know exactly which questions were intended to take me down.

or i don't
and i really

this too

ETA: 2000th livejournal entry.

anonymousblack: ([tarkovskiy] ocean)
that echoing cry washed over opheus' inadequacy and swallowed back into the dead land, that place we are only on temporary lease from, the inevitable destination of every lament, every shed tear: does anyone listen? can anybody hear this? is anyone out there at all?

i will not face it. i will not stand it down.

it is the order of things. we love, we love, we lose, we're lost. no bridge for that divide. no alternate route. if we are going to love, we are going to lose. that's the flesh and bone of it, the meat of the matter, that's what really gets you hot: to recognize that you love someone is to acknowledge that you are willing to take on the pain of losing them; you are promising you will ultimately grieve their loss. i didn't want things to go like this. i didn't want you to die alone. we all die alone. especially: there is no especially. we all die alone. if we die a person who maintained many loving connections, many will grieve after we die. if we die isolated, having atrophied every lingering connection with our bitterness and indifference, that is a life mourned out while living. loss hurts. loss is inevitable. pain is inevitable, is what i am saying. get used to it, kid.

there isn't a path back to there isn't a route back to there isn't a way home there isn't a home at all. not really. love could be a home, except when love is an echoing cry washing over your inadequacy and swallowed back into the dead land. that home of love. that place love comes from. that pact with the devil we rush to sign off on every time we really mean it, every time we break through our own barriers, open to love, really see someone, really feel something, recognize all at once that this truly is a matter that really, really matters. we allocate life force. we give ourselves away. we throw ourselves into it, barely acknowledging how in the end we are really throwing ourselves away. we love and love and love and love. i love you, orpheus, eurydice wanted to say, eurydice wanted to say without it coming back on her in any other than the desirable way: the way where i loved you with everything i had to love you, the way i would have surrendered whatever resources i could have surrendered - and then some, and then some indeed - to keep you safe, to protect you from who you didn't want to become, to take your hand off the gun, away from the razor, out of the quetiapine bottle. what i would have given and yet it was not enough: because: because:

the wind through the dead land, wind blowing through that place of no wind. that killing fissure mapping out her killing blow. who would mourn me? who would even mourn me? of course i would be mourned. but, then again, mourning is an activity of the living; i suspect that the dead operate on a different frequency. but when it comes down to it, down to the last moments, down to the dead land: i don't know anything about it, as i'm not supposed to. just that i'm here on the presumed anniversary of the day my beloved friend ended his life alone in an apartment that wasn't his own and: i don't know. i don't know the question he asked me that day, that question he asked without asking, that question he didn't give me a chance to answer, that day he made good on love's debt.

now i am tearful. rattled and rattling. i can't focus, i can't remember my functions, what role i'm supposed to take. was i a good friend? was i ever a good friend? have i ever given something to another person i didn't selfishly snatch back on a bad day? i know, this was a wake up call. i know, this is a wake up call. but i've been trying to wake up for years. i know it's a wake up call, but i don't understand what i'm waking for, and i don't understand what's needed, and i don't understand. my every working theory has been quite thoroughly proven wrong over these last twelve months. i don't know where to go, who to be, i don't know what i did wrong.

there's my funerary refrain: "i don't know what i did wrong."

i tried to love. i tried to help. i tried to connect, to heal, to offer something the people i love would want to return to. i don't know that i was a total failure, but given where i am, i sure the fuck can't say i've been getting it right. and i had a friend, and now my friend is gone. and i had a friend, and now my friend is gone. and i had a friend, but now my friend is gone. an echoing lamentation through that land of no answers: constituting the only real answer any of us will ever find.

anonymousblack: (logarithmic spiral)
true sacred fire: the contact made in congress, the place where lips meet. the fire of permission, of intimate unspoken pleading. the surface lit bright before charring to ridges and swirls. the sacred fire: the moment of contact. we've come to this moment willingly. in a desperation of senses. no knowledge of what needs to be done or how we will go about doing it. we come to this moment naked, if not from the start shortly into proceedings, as the undressing is one matter that can be disposed of without a second thought or thoroughly luxuriated, one moment after the next, teased over and under expectations like a dish of fresh rose petals held under the nose of a blindfolded playmate. the sacred fire of play, of teasing. of making childish games ritual in the honeyed sway of desire.

and like that we are equals and like that you are in my power, and like that again i am in yours: beautiful goddess, jewel of the heavens, mother of agony and ecstasy, mother of pleasure and shame. ecstatic mother of beautiful agony, listen: listen: torn to nudity in a minute or gently undressed over the course of an hour, it matters little: for each pleasure balance itself perfectly on the scales of true sacred fire. we light up this moment, we light up the sky, we light up each other, over and through: light alight in lightening, a rage of storm-clouded snakes, light alight in the beloved's strange gaze.

how you are in so many ways an abstraction, a pile of self, until the beloved's gaze snaps you into a context where you can see, all at once, who it is that you've become.

who you are in so many ways as an abstraction

in the beast's castle, beauty cannot see herself taking form. in the beast's castle, beauty has not so much forgotten who she was as much as she rebels against new information. for the beast tells her one thing and her prior experience another. for her experience tells her one thing and her pain another, yet. beauty only believes the pain, at first: that's the thing about pain, you can believe in it. you can always at least believe in your pain. anyway, anything worth having is going to be painful: believe it.

beauty in the beast’s castle, alone but for the beast: but beauty is never alone in the castle, for she has her beast. beastly beauty, beautiful beast. it's all leading up to, what is it leading up to, where is this going, what do i need to figure out? surely, i am under some spell. an ancient enchantment. punishment for some sin committed not by me, but my lineage. i am responsible for some long-ago stranger whose wrong i must now right: or the consequences will be grave. my death alone will not be enough. entire townships, innocent villagers, think of the children! my family my family my family, so often the story's hero must resolve a family member's mistake for their own best interests, you know the way of it, or you do if you've been there and most of us have at least once.

and, here on this side of the story, our most important if ill informed quests to put things right have been triggered by a mistake less poetic than plucking a rose off the wrong garden gate or wishing for a daughter at any expense in front of the wrong witch. some of us are trying to short circuit centuries of systemic oppression; some of us are being crushed under the weight of just trying to get people to simply observe systemic oppression: and then there’s the casual "those people," the heartless “not us.” most of our ancestral error is ugly, slippery, uncomfortable: and emphatically unacknowledged. it is costly to speak truth to power. it is very costly. but the truth is: we have turned profit from evil. all of us have. we have luxuriated carelessly in the suffering of others. most of us have. we didn't necessarily know at the time though that's the thing of it: you never know when the shadow realm is about to swarm up in your face with a karmic privilege check, however this year's trend seems to be "must be tuesday."

and we are left, wandering the woods, lost in the castle, circling down the labyrinth. we are left sleepless on the karlstad, staring out over broadcast towers in the dark. we are left strange and miserable: we don't know who to be, we can't understand who we've been, we can't begin to see where any of this is going and as it was, as it should be. our nightly broadcast tower pulse melancholy doesn't necessarily have a lesson all it's own, but it prompts us along the path.

why can't i go back to school, i lament, i ought to have a masters, a masters in creative writing at least. stronger credentials seem like they would be helpful in standing down a few mfa-possessing critics who think they have something over this writer who's bled herself out like clockwork in the course of her independently studied initiations: and they're absolutely right. an mfa is a tremendous accomplishment. won’t help you out as much on the job market as it might have five or ten years ago, but that’s the thing. nobody in power wants to admit it, but that boat broke in half on the way down. it’s not coming back up as a functional vessel. i don’t know that we’re going to have a true renaissance of employment opportunity in the united states until after venid a ver la sangre por las calles. which has been and continues to be something of a problem for those of us who are functionally lovers, not fighters, and chronically ill besides, but.

back to what i was saying: a creative writing mfa is a tremendous accomplishment. unfortunately, it is diminished somewhat when one writer who needed or believed they needed that initiation and were able to rally the resources wields the finished product over another writer who either didn't or couldn't. creative writing is one field sporting that unsporting reality: school only helps to a point. then, you are on your own. on your own to keep challenging yourself. on your own to find meaning in what you achieve. on your own to simply keep engaging with the writing craft. you gotta figure out your own initiations, once school is out, and that’s arguably why i’ve met so many academically successful writers with very little in the way of post-graduate work. sometimes too much school is a method of silencing resistance. self-injury, even.

initiations are a personal matter, best performed in the service of your specific path. there are universal initiations, matters we negotiate by virtue of being human: death, individuation, love. there are others that we choose, and still others that choose us. as called as you may have felt to school, there are other writers who feel equivalently called to something else entirely, and here’s rule one: neither of you has any authority to pronounce the other’s method invalid. schooling can help a writer in many ways, especially those writers still inside their first decade dedicated to learning the craft. the problem is that advanced education has also annihilated more than its fair share of extremely important writers, and not just with student debt. not all of us can survive that much more institutional bureaucracy. not all of us can endure two more years of unholy workshop echo chambers. i examine my own experience against my longing for institutional recognition and see: i’m doing the work of learning to write (i pray to continue doing so as long as i live) and i’m doing it my own way. the reason i’d go back to school would be for the credentials. i hesitate not simply because i don’t have anything even vaguely resembling the monetary resources. the experience itself could have an extremely negative impact on my work.

how much my initiation meant to me, that's how little it means to anyone else, because: we make our own path. we tend our own path. we create and maintain the people we are so we can travel our own path. we determine with our living what our lives will be. an mfa is a tremendous achievement, but it is lessened when a writer uses it either to stop showing up for our craft or for the craft of others. in both cases, it means we’ve stopped showing up for the craft on the whole. in both methods, it’s only a matter of time before the shadow realm swarms up with a karmic privilege check.

then again, maybe it’s just tuesday.

ETA: yeah, i submitted a fifteen page poetry sample in the hopes of maybe getting some MAAF grant action. yeah, i did it on deadline day, at nearly four o'clock in the morning, after deciding NINETEEN TIMES that i wasn't going to be able to pull anything reasonable together in time.

not entirely sure what i submitted. uh oh. but send a good thought. i could really use this.

anonymousblack: (coral)
lotuses into the distance, stepping out into the water. seeker looks on from the water's edge, hands clasped, eyes finding no sure place to rest. today, seeker was intended to examine her wounds. today, seeker intended to have her wounds examined, but the day had another intention entirely so seeker looks out over the water from the water's edge, hands clasped, eyes glancing, anticipating, anticipating, anticipating: what?

on the water the pink blossoms seem to be moving, cluster to tangle, gathering and isolating, but she suspects this is a conspiracy of slight movements augmented by her expectations. the green mat of leaf, like where she'd exercise at the gym. the spiking center of louts, a woman's skirts obscenely upended, opening in upheaval, showing what was not necessarily intended to be seen.

instead of righting the matter, instead of making the scene submit to comfortable associations: a lotus's jewel, the meditator's courtyard, someplace to be for every place in being, seeker lights a flame at every flower's center and lofts skyward in offering toward the old white moon. stars and stars and stars and stars. a star field of lotuses, taking shapes and coding messages seeker hasn't yet learned to speak. from the edge of the water seeker guesses the ages of things. lotuses of the season, waters of eternity. ten thousand year stones in her pocket, smoothed to circles over the course of her lifetime.

there is seeker herself, at the water's edge, considering the ages of things. seeker is in her late thirties but she has also recently broke the seal of forty.

seeker is a hundred years old and she is not yet even nine.

seeker is a sixteen year old wander, barefoot and lost to a rhythm in her head.

seeker is twenty and alone in a strange new city, where the walking bridge brags a mortality rate and gas station owners ambition to be farms by virtue of a small lot of corn just off the pumps.

seeker hasn't even started to cultivate her life to such variables before she is twenty-two and needs to move back to her mother's house, where when last she resided things had arrived at a point where it became necessary to live among corn-farming gas stations.

seeker is ever an infant, gazing at the world as seeing it for the first time.

seeker is weary of the world, bent over herself and muttering, barely a scruff of white hair atop the shiny globe of her exposed scalp.

seeker is every age in one moment, because age does not matter to seeker so much, only those limitations her body and the law put on her activities.

seeker woke while it was still dark, her lover stirring as she climbed out of bed. he stirred then rolled on his back and fell back asleep with his mouth open, calling out to something unnameable and with a sigh, redacting it before that unnameable something got too close. seeker leans over him for a moment, pressing her lips to the damp considerations twitching through his brow even in sleep. seeker thinks. seeker seeks out other thinkers. she kisses her dear thinker’s forehead and holds until he turns away, quieting his breath and curling up on his side. we have such simple mechanisms in love, seeker thinks, and quietly leaves the room.

seeker goes out onto the balcony to look out over her latest strange city. here, no one is hiring and the awful hardness of strangers occasionally fills the sky with helicopters. here, a highway jaunt is to be expected in even a five minute commute and most of the time when she does drive, it's to the hospital. seeker is still seeker, though, eternally unaltered and worn smooth with daily tidal trauma; learning to walk and die in the same movement. in the distance a cluster of broadcast towers signal, blinking slow, pulsing long, casting small shadows even where seekers stands, miles away. there's something out there, she knows. there's something out there calling. there's something i need to find, she knows, the fire igniting her lotus.

she wonders what it could be.

anonymousblack: (did you think you were here alone?)
mirror it back. is it time? are you ready? is this what we've been waiting for, the shape of it at least, the bend and shake, the hello hello, do you read me, could you read me, would you even bother? because if this is what it looks like, we have some serious matters to discuss, and if it isn't what it looks like, why are you even here? there are all kinds of truths betrayed about us in the way we tell a lie, the sorts of lies we tell, the times and relationships we tell them into, that's before even we get into the nature of that costume. you were always making yourself up for me, putting a line where there ought to have been a telling silence, telling me what this silence should mean. so, then, silence. silence now, silence please. dissect the meaning of this silence, the ultimate reason for the place we are in. please consider: place of silence, place of unreceived messages, place of awkward telling shifts, one foot again the other, a twitch at the hip, who you've been, who you'll be, those blank spaces we'll fill in readily with stories, with interesting stories, with colorful narratives designed to conceal the true surface of our every uncertainty, the real evil that's always been calling the shots: who we are, who we are now and always, this eternal waiting room of self that we will not acknowledge until it is much too late.

tell me again. tell me again who you thought i could be. tell me about the first time you saw me or, if that isn't the most persuasive tale, tell me about the first time you loved me and then tell me that story again, tell it to me over and over again. of course that's the story i will only ever want to hear: tell it again. play it at a different speed. speed it up. draw it out. draw it out slow, tease me for hours, bring me to the brink of desperate pleading then bring it back to the part where you let me pretend i'm in any kind of control. tease the narrative out of my listening, give me what i need you to give me, wound me with the absence of what you must take away. it's all the interplay of sensation and intended sensation. the reaction you'd like me to have, but not yet: the reaction you'd like me to have, but not yet: the reaction, the response, the bite and the chill, the thin rise of fear, that look in the eye, god, that look in the eye: and as it was, so it will be: never who we are, just who you've been, just who you'll be. if you want to know who you are, look into a mirror.

anyway, we're tired of that framing device. it is tiresome. it's that same oily buildup we fell asleep in and then woke up to and now we stumble around bleary eyed, pointlessly trying to shake it off, pointlessly trying to scrub it off, and here it is! and here i am! again as i was as i am as i always will be and that's only this oily moment going into eternity, no escape, no surrender, or only escape if you surrender, or what the hell escape and surrender, but who's to say what the other side of that looks like? it's probably the same old thing. some old thing, some ever-present old thing we've been looking at for so long we don't see it any longer: but what's to see? oh my heart, oh my gut, oh my groin: my stomach ruing over its emptiness even as i plead for acknowledgement of my offerings: a plate a dish a bowl a box a paper wrapper an internally foil sealed tube, a bottle, a glass, a jar, a name of it a place to go something you can stand to look at for three seconds in the oily eternal moment, in the ever-recycling this too shall pass, and then there's me, and then there's you: and you? what about you? what are you about?


anonymousblack: ([hokusai] great wave)
seeker loves the darkness, seeker dresses in black. seeker writes poetry about death as a point of entry for understanding love. in seeker’s poetry, matters disintegrate. things fall apart. people forget who they are and do things so terrible they’ll never remember again. the abandoned selves in seeker’s poetry return to the earth: to be put to rest. to regenerate, reincarnate, flare up in the night with phoenix wings. the abandoned selves in seeker’s poetry emerge a new matter, strange to behold. off the page and off the map. in the unmapped places. in the places between. in those places we cannot anticipate, only navigate. only survive.

seeker fears such places, almost as much as she loves them. seeker loves the darkness so she dresses in black.

here is one story. here is one story told on the back of a pale boy’s hand. the subtle lift and loft of each minuscule bone, the tender rise and crackle of each joint. hands are all nuance and supposition, except when they are not. a theory of malleability. a theory of a pale boy’s hand. seeker sets upon a surface. she prepares to receive a new name for a previously unexamined matter.

seeker sleeps in the hallway outside of her room, but only when no one else is home. she does so believing that only through the acknowledgment that every residence is temporary may we glimpse what is eternal. on her bed, she puts flowers. a substantial tribute of flowers. stems and leaves and a flurry of petals fallen and recombined in abstract expressions of flowers that have fallen apart. stems and stamens and seed pods, what other flowers would seeker want? leaf matter, root matter, what’s the matter?


seeker is lying out her own wake. she dresses her second-to-last resting place, that place she will rest after she rests no more. seeker is no longer afraid of closing her eyes. she knows her every blink shatters the universe in some tiny way. she knows every unacknowledged end and beginning that quivers in the space hidden by every blink. the world that could exist in split hairs of not even seconds could be entirely different from the world that we hold our eyes open to, but we wouldn’t know it because our eyes are shut. what world exists in the split hairs of seconds, the places between?

forget it, the light is strange and the narrative unstable. instead, let us consider: why has seeker closed her eyes? she is tired and hungry. she wants to write poetry but fears it will never be read: by a dark girl, by a pale boy, by a woman dressed in fire or a man who lives in terror of a locked door. and yet what we have written is not something we can ever really read. and yet what we have written lines a reader’s understanding of us like adhesive contact paper at the bottom of the kitchen junk drawer. there’s so much more to it in every way in imagining. there’s so much more to it than any pale boy could know.

write the fire, write it fast, keep the language moving: seeker’s been burned by holding a line too long before. she gathers her treasures: roses and thorn bushes. books and marking ribbons. boxes shaped like hearts, agates cut into eggs. skulls and vertebra, a crumbling of leaves. a shell, a stone, a stick. a ring of keys. a diamond ring. a clasping ring of beads: black and blue, cobalt and turquoise, bleached-bone flecks of white. a stone with a hole worn through. a twisted lip of lotus stem. a red thread, a blue thread, a black thread. a pointed quartz included with tourmaline: seeker remembers every gift. broken wax seals and knotted thread cords. a dish filled with water. a small bottle of oil, another small bottle of oil. seeker loves the distilled essence of a single matter almost as much as the mysteries of combination. one energy into another, neroli absolute into lavender’s essence, clove spiking the bergamot.

intention augmented by other intentions. the unique signature of our personal desires: darkest blue, but only in glass or the very early morning. rose, but as red, darkest red, red as an expression of black, and that dark wine of fragrance hypnotizing the beloved. candles, beeswax and paraffin, carved with intention, etched by desire, dressed and redressed with blended oils, with holy oils, anointed in a line at the brow. seeker watches from the periphery that is her only home. she knows someone is waiting for her. she knows someone is calling for her. she knows someone somewhere is dreaming in darkness for her.

anonymousblack: ([rollins] iron rose)
alone on the shore, seeker gathers up shells. alone on the shore, seeker gathers shells together, shells and coral and ocean-tumbled stones, smoothed into simple shapes, smoothed into pale colors, into colors that are only just there. seeker seeks seashells on the shore: walking along the tidewater’s perpetually shifting boundary, a place where things wash up to wash back out. such a beautiful analogy for seeker’s unconscious and yet what does she find? things are different near the ocean. the ocean peaks and recedes. the ocean has its own shape to reveal.

gathering shells in the hem of her gown, seeker looks out into the ocean and sees: how the nature of the water’s surface changes in the distance. how the sound of water changes with its volume. the ocean churns and rushes. the ocean is always on the move. seeker clacks and rattles her shells, herself an altar, herself an altered matter. herself the point where water, wind, stone, and flame conspire to manifest experience. but then again: and then what’s more: and then: and how:

ribbons and scarves. something about seeker is always trailing along. answers and questions: seeker often can’t be bothered to experience them in an examined variety of sequence. what do you know, what do you expect, what are you looking for?

seeker wants everything you would expect seeker to want. she wants to be beautiful. she wants to feel beautiful. she wants to share beauty. she wants to remember almost as much as she wants to be remembered. seeker wants to walk at the endlessly shifting tide line and believe there’s a reason she is there: a reason she is here: a matter being communicated: information that needs to be conveyed to her and needs to be conveyed to her in a meaningful way. her shells are colors of flesh. her shells are colors of teeth. her shells are the color of bone, of things stripped to their core essence, of things stripped to the elements of form: the elements of form, exposed to the elements: water and gravity, water and salt, the moon’s pull, the sun’s fade, tiny waters splashed and gathered in a clam shell’s flipped dish. gathering water and sand. gathering microbes and salt.

the ocean trails on about it like the ocean does. scarves and ribbons. always another inhale, always another expanding sigh, always another seeker looking out over the water wondering what it would be like: to look back over the water, to look back towards shore. to rise above, looking down into the sloshing shallows, the sandbar’s steady rise. sea creatures click and moan. sea creatures shimmy and undulate. seeker leaves the sea creatures their shells or the shells that could be theirs:

seeker only takes what is partial, what no longer constitutes shelter, what she can bring together incomplete to make into a new sort of whole. this is seeker’s purpose: bringing together what does not satisfy in a satisfying way. seeker finds the farthest flung pieces. seeker brings together what is broken and lost. broken and lost until seeker pieces it together in seeker’s distinct manner: what seeker is most often looking for is a new way of looking at something lost to our understanding of it: a new context, a new arrangement. a new use, a new way of thinking. seeker wants to show me there’s a place for everything and everything has its place: the snail shell broken and tossed over itself over and again over until every broken place slides smooth beneath the thumb, smooth beneath the thumb in spirals and twists: twisting into a kind of portal. a new break in reality. a place you did not know you could go. a place you did not know you could find yourself in. a place with no coordinates, no address, no zoning code: where you are when you are not really, or the place you’ve always been.

seeker wants to bring what is broken together. not to piece it together as it was. not even to remember it as it was: seeker sees her own reflection in what is broken and worn smooth, what is bleached lifeless and riddled with holes, what constitutes mystery, obstruction, revelation, and release.

the pleasures of what cannot be completed, the pleasures of what has already begun to break down: the pleasures of halfway lost, strange and scattering, already broken, already breaking down. seeker knows these things are not the only gift the ocean has to offer her but in this moment she is sustained by the gathering process. finding and gathering, observing and remembering. how observing calls memory. how memory calls. how memory calls.

anonymousblack: (away)
the way we exist in space and time. the way space and time remembers. dense and impermeable, a matter only for laboratory science and the archives, or soft and malleable, something enhanced by the imagination, something made into forms and shapes we can use to enhance the present moment. we are ever on the cusp of the next moment. we are ever on the cusp of eternity. listen for the way being comes into being:



the structure of the matter informs the outcome. the direction it will take. the ways it plays on sunday. tall and certain or moderately meandering, there are checks and balances and names we take in our daily striving to control who and how we are seen to be. the way we exist in space and time. the way our chemistry takes to memory. tall standing and sure of surfaces, ever coming into form: who we are how we are, every matter that made us established somewhere on legal forms or medical waivers or astrological charts documenting not simply abnormal toe counts or interference with the first breath, but the station of venus, where saturn fits by degree, where the sun and how the moon, chiron and pluto, is it a matter of totals, is it a manner of degree?

here we are on the cusp of things, here we are not quite dedicated to the end or the start.

it's a shade of yellow that's a little green, it's a snatch of blue that's gone teal in the far corners. no one thing is ever simply one thing but then again that's a mechanism with which we ought to be familiar: a kind of performance art for those who don't perform, an art form for the artless.

build it up: the way we exist in space and time.

the way we consider: here again is our certainty, here again is our balance, here again is what we wanted to remember to do with our gains and resources, our method of working things through. is it in from the edge? is it out from the center? is it up for the game or is it glimpsing ambiguous matters with a sidelong, with a slow and long, with again what again was it that brought us to this?

i'm on the cusp of something, is what i'm saying, though i don't know what it could be because i've become so accustomed to playing along. so let me do that: feed me a line. tell me what to say here. first into the second, second to the fold, the old white and crumbling accounts we maintained so meticulously, the hot wet flaming moment eaten through. once i was an institution. once i directed matters from chaos into workable daily tasks. get to the dusting, the alphabetizing, the cooperate directives on how this space should be experienced. put the books in someone else's order: of course i wrote a poem about it. once i was a poet. once i came in from seemingly unrelated concerns and coordinated everyone's dwindling interests into something to really see. and like that in the certainty, and like that again.

and in the balance, in that weird construction, in the making of matters that weren't meant to be made: this is horrible. i mean, i'm falling apart. i keep using the same word. i make the shape of it even when i'd rather not. i start writing it again and try to redirect. scratch it out. loop it through. give it a new purpose. a new identity. a new way of living in the world. (how many times have i written that before?) there's a method to it, there's a way to nudge it into place. there's a gap to bridge, a fall you could take, a take to fall. juggle around the language. expose it for what it really is. smile and walk away. smile and keep walking. the way we exist in space and time. the way we remember. the things we forget. i wanted to mean something. i wanted to matter. i wanted to be cared about, a count in someone's favor, no accounting for

anonymousblack: (like thought)
1. the body as a dramatic gesture, the body as a withered rose.

2. curled in on itself and hidden from view: hidden from view: hidden from view. everything hidden from view. everything valuable concealed from judgment, envy, and potential theft.

3. because the body can be stolen, the mind taken prisoner.

4. because we think we know the shape of things but really what we have is a map, poorly translated and flattened to nonsense. because we think we know the shape of things but what we really have is word of mouth, because did you have any idea? what is the shape of things?

5. the body as a dramatic gesture. the body as a withered rose. the body as one's own addendum, always tagging along:

6. i am the passenger. i stay under glass.

7. at times we fall out of it, confused or traumatized, something to hide, someone to conceal, something or someone to protect with a clever facade doomed to take over the show. but back to my tale: the slow curve, the hitching lock. the way every limb moves gradually toward chaos, arm bulging at the hand, hand branching into fingers, fingers culminating in galaxy whorls and spirals:

8. every finger its own nation, distinct unto itself, distinguished by scars and stars, the diverging rivers of our specification.

9. body as gesture.

10. body as rose.

11. sometimes we lose ourselves. sometimes we find ourselves lost.

12. lost to ourselves we crumple to the dirt, writhe around in the dirt, forget our manners in the dirt, serve as a new entry to the underworld. when you look at me next seek out my true boundaries. there's a matter right at border patrol and: and: and:

13. look. i am a creature of surfaces and interiors. look into my eyes to see my unnamed thoughts pantomiming daily activities as part of this game we play. look into my eyes, enter the soul's lobby and follow the course back, into the whites of my eyes. back, into the labyrinth folds of my brain. back, into the reinforced packaging strategy of my skull, where the matter of my thinking goes rigid with the crisis of it and fizzles out in interminable strands of gray-streaked hair.

14. look into my eyes, literally or figuratively, and figure out: what does this mean? where does it go? who does it make us? how will we ever go on?

15. bluster through the circumstances.

16. make it seem intentional. make it seem like you had no choice.

17. sons and daughters.

18. students and players.

19. again, we say, again: and i kneel before my altar, hands strong with the scent of anointing oil. and i kneel before my altar, notebook before me, one word after the next, frantically, one word again another word.

20. one word again another word.

21. this letter to the goddess i am ever writing, ever channeling down stranger sublimations. i look through my window so bright. this letter to the goddess that is my autobiography. that is my murder mystery. that is my still unfolding obituary: look. look. look!

22. the student is ready but the master cannot be summoned.

23. the master is in a broom closet summoning the devil.

24. what does it mean that the student still hears?

25. there's a letter to the goddess, if one there ever was.

anonymousblack: (magdalene)
and then in certainty. and then like that. the puzzle, the mystery, the building scrutiny. how to be who to be when it all comes together to all fall apart. the movement of breath from the surface into the depths. the movement of certainty from what is hoped for into what is dreaded: and the full count of that, the accurate one and two and three of it, who we are in these constructions, what it means, where it goes.
we're going to begin this slowly. by asking for our names. by remembering our names. by accepting our names. who we are, how we got here, where we are headed and where we have been. i'm walking towards the opening, towards the black space that represents the transitions between this world and the next world. i'm going into the lower world but first i am entering the place of transition. the place that i often neglect. the place many of us have entirely forgotten. it is an ancient cave. it has not changed since the beginning of human memory. on the walls there are drawings, scratchings. at first shapes, symbols - at first shapes. that could be an animal. that could be a man with a spear. that could be a woman with a swollen belly.*

i'm tired of many of my questions, but what does that mean? it could mean i'll begin to assume answers that do not exist. it could mean i'll start to act like there isn't uncertainty. answer my biggest questions with wasteful acts of psychic vandalism: pretending the question was never there in the first place. i've seen former seekers do this sort of thing with the idea of god. i've seen former artists do it with the idea of creativity. i've watched people i've loved and people i could have loved vanish into their worst fears about love and emerge as total strangers. because: what did they see? who stared back at them in that cave where there was only enough light to emphasize that there really wasn't a lot of light?

that's the way so many of us can be about it, at least in the first round. we look around ourselves in a dark cave and terror at the dark. it's not even totally dark yet: we haven't gone more than a few steps in. we just assume we have no resources for this. this is horrible. this will destroy us. i better not even ask any more questions about this or this will eat me alive.

you know it's like that. it's like that in so many ways.
blotches and smears and shapes, twining and intertwining. flaring up into each other. blotting each other out. the web of humanity. the way we try to obliterate each other. the way we obliterate each other by simply trying to live our lives. i am surrounded by these swirling, blotching, smearing, vanishing forms. i am overwhelmed. i fall to my knees. i clutch the sides of my head. i press my forehead to the floor of the cave, both resisting and accepting the forms that push into me, that press into me, that press me into a new form, a new self, a new name. i stand with all of these forms around me. i take a step forward and these crude representations that are at the core of everything we do become more refined symbols, become cuneiform. i am witnessing the birth of language. fathered by need. born of desire. it is private and it is transpersonal. it is everyone's story, claimed by no one.

the deeper we go, the more it can build up on us. the deeper we see, the more likely we are to tug at the cord and beg to go back up. and yeah, there's relief when the crew above responds and quickly pulls you back up. but sometimes you were meant to explore deeper. sometimes you were meant to go further down. sometimes you feel that, in a pang, in confusion, in frustration or anger or fear: what are you missing, down there, out here, around this corner, on this path? what won't you now be able to learn?
and as i walk to the point where the cave widens, where i know the altar waits for me, i am surrounded by words. words that are trying to get in. words that know i am a point of entry for their transmission. that i am a storyteller. that i have been put here to craft words into shapes and release them back into the wild. to return them back to those amorphous inexplicable, inexpressible forms that were at the front of the cave. i can let the words assault me or i can accept the words. i can move with the words, i can join with them, i can let them become part of me.

so the questions you've denied become questions you've denied. "cannot allocate resources toward further exploration" shifts from the pat answer you were supposed to drop all your expectations in, shifts into a burning sensation you can always feel but never locate. that's because it tends to settle into the spaces where there are meridians, the ley lines of the self, points of tension between tectonic plates, lines of transforming fire that could lie in the heart but could just as easily engulf the spirit whole. anyway, where is the spirit? anyway, what is the spirit? wasn't that one of your original questions - at least where one of your original questions was headed to?
i am a child in the face of it, a wounded child. a lost and wounded child. who doesn't know why she's here, who has been denied at every turn. and i gnash my teeth and i tear at my hair and i make angry noises. and it doesn't change anything. the cave is there, the candles burn. the end of the cave waits. it doesn't matter if i won't acknowledge my transitions. transitions are still made. the place at the beginning and the place at the end still wait. the place at the beginning and the place at the end are still inevitable. there's always a path. even i won't accept that i'm on it. i sit up in the circle, and i look back. i look back at where i have come from, through the cave. i understand that was the process of my birth, my adolescence. i don't know what that means or what waits for me at the end of the cave. but i get up. i am alone. i walk out of the circle. i walk to the end of the cave.

sometimes we don't realize the question that haunts us is actually a developing thread of questions that's only ever asking one thing: is there god, what does life mean, why can't i have love? sometimes in our lives every answer leads back to the same unanswerable question. and so, you know, and so, you wonder, and so what could that mean? it can be strange to watch a cluster of questions fold in on themselves, line up, take their places in position around the one question you were actually asking all along. strange as in exhilarating, or painful, or absurdly hilarious. strange as in: where else do we even go?
it's night. the wind is blowing. it's night. there's a moon. there's a path, dirt. grasses bent low in the wind. i gather myself and i walk. i walk in the night. there's a lake. as i walk down the path, the path goes closer to the lake. until i can see it, on my right side. i can smell it. night moisture. night. the water, the crickets. i kneel down by the lake. i can hear the water lapping the pebbles under my bare feet, now under my knees. i look out over the water. will the lake speak to me? can the lake answer my questions? does the lake know my fucking question?

*indented text excerpted from journey transcript, 2-19-2016


anonymousblack: (Default)
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April 2017

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